


a very impolite thing to do

by vachement



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier is a little shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Sharing Clothes, stealing clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vachement/pseuds/vachement
Summary: “Jaskier,” Geralt started, somewhat hesitantly, though he already knew the answer to his question. “Is that… are you wearing my shirt?”Jaskier blinked guilelessly down at his (Geralt’s) shirt. He and Geralt were of a height, but Jaskier was far leaner, so it hung off of one of his pale shoulders and exposed his collarbone for all the world to see. It wasn’t fitted like his doublets were, so the rest of his chest was concealed by billowy fabric, but the fit of it was still enough to have Geralt’s pants tightening uncomfortably.“No, of course not. Are you accusing me of theft?” he shot back mildly. “Because that is a heinous crime I would never, ever commit, and frankly, I’m offended by your accusation. I cannot believe that you’d stoop to asking such a blatantly rude question.”or, two times jaskier steals geralt's shirts, and one time geralt does something about it
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 685





	a very impolite thing to do

**Author's Note:**

> title from the lemony snicket quote: "stealing, of course, is a crime, and a very impolite thing to do. but like most impolite things, it is excusable under certain circumstances. stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. but if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it would be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it.”
> 
> enjoy!!

“Jaskier,” Geralt started, somewhat hesitantly, though he already knew the answer to his question. “Is that… are you wearing my shirt?”

Jaskier blinked guilelessly down at his (Geralt’s) shirt. He and Geralt were of a height, but Jaskier was far leaner, so it hung off of one of his pale shoulders and exposed his collarbone for all the world to see. It wasn’t fitted like his doublets were, so the rest of his chest was concealed by billowy fabric, but the fit of it was still enough to have Geralt’s pants tightening uncomfortably. 

“No, of course not. Are you accusing me of theft?” he shot back mildly. “Because that is a heinous crime I would never, ever commit, and frankly, I’m offended by your accusation. I cannot believe that you’d stoop to asking such a blatantly rude question.”

Despite himself, Geralt couldn’t help but to be amused by Jaskier’s dramatics. He didn’t show it, of course; Jaskier would take it as encouragement, and then he’d get even  _ more  _ dramatic, and then Geralt would have to impale himself on his sword. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at the bard, gesturing at his drab attire.

“Didn’t know you were buying your doublets pre-stained,” he said idly. There was a stain from drowner blood that he’d never been able to get out of that shirt. It was black, so it didn’t matter to him, but he knew it would bug Jaskier to no end.

Jaskier just shrugged. “It’s the latest fashion, my dear,” he said breezily, striking a pose. It looked ridiculous, of course, but Geralt found it oddly alluring anyway. God, he hated Jaskier. He used to have  _ taste _ . “Selkimore guts are all the rage now, haven’t you heard?”

“Why are you wearing my shirt, Jaskier?” Geralt honestly didn’t care about the shirt. He had several others in his bag. What he cared about was that Jaskier had decided to wear it for some odd reason, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

It wasn’t like the bard was lacking for clothes. God knew he had enough fancy doublets taking up space in his pack. Plus, he’d washed them in the river just the day before. There was no logical reason for why he’d have to take one of Geralt’s shirts.

Jaskier grinned. He looked a little demented; Geralt didn’t know what it said about him that he still found it attractive. “I just felt like it,” he answered innocently, toying with the hem like he was a blushing maiden. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

“No,” Geralt conceded after a long moment of silence. If he could’ve blushed, he was sure he would’ve. He clamped his mouth shut before he could say  _ yes, it is a problem, because seeing you in my clothes is making me want to pin you against a tree,  _ or  _ no, it’s the exact opposite of a problem, I wish you’d wear my clothes more often _ . There was a reason he didn’t talk much. 

“Good!” said Jaskier, and then he was off like a whirlwind moving around their campsite. “Now, come on. We’re losing the light, and I’d really like to sleep in an inn tonight if it’s all the same to you.”

The whole walk into town, Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off the bard. He never did get the shirt back.

\---

Saying that Jaskier had a penchant for getting himself into trouble was a massive understatement, like saying that wyverns were only a little bit venomous. Saying Jaskier had a fucking deathwish was far more accurate, if ruder.

“How the fuck did you manage this?” Geralt hissed, poking at the bard’s bleeding side. The shirt was a lost cause, that much was for sure, bloody and ripped as it was. At least the stab wound didn't look too bad, but he’d definitely need it bandaged up at the very least. Hopefully they could avoid stitches.

Jaskier smiled, blood staining his teeth. Ostensibly, he’d been punched. By the state of his knuckles, he’d done some of the punching, too. “Well, my dear,” Jaskier started, then winced when Geralt started to clean the wound. “Let’s just say that when a man threatens you with a knife, you should possibly  _ not  _ laugh in his face. Apparently, he’ll consider it rude and stab you-- which, honestly, is far ruder. I mean, I stabbed him first, but he deserved it. I’m the victim in this situation.”

“Do I want to know why?” Geralt sighed. He was pretty sure he already knew, but he still held out hope that one of these days, Jaskier wouldn’t be so stupid as to run his mouth, or stick his cock into the wrong person, or make a rude joke about an important noble, or any of the other myriad things he did because he was an idiot with no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. 

“I just didn’t like the look of that man, I suppose,” Jaskier shrugged, putting on his most innocent look. Geralt wasn’t convinced. “What? He had a weaselly nose!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt raised a skeptical eyebrow. Satisfied with the cleanliness of Jaskier’s wound, he started to bandage it with gentle hands.

Jaskier made a face. “Fine,” he huffed dramatically. He yelped as he jostled his side. “He called you emotionless mutant scum and implied that you should do everyone a favor and not come back from one of your hunts. I couldn’t let that stand, for obvious reasons. I doubt he’ll be making any rude remarks about Witchers any time soon, not with the way I slashed his cheek. I doubt he’ll be doing any talking until the stitches heal, really.”

His smile was just on the wrong side of vicious for the normally happy-go-lucky bard. Geralt did his best to find it offputting, he really did. It wasn’t his fault that Jaskier’s (futile and pointless) defense of him had  _ something  _ rearing its head in his chest that he refused to examine further. 

“You’re an idiot,” he said gruffly instead, tugging the bandages tighter and finishing them off with a knot. 

Jaskier hummed ambivalently. “It was worth it.”

“You don’t have to defend me,” Geralt carefully kept the anger out of his voice. It wasn’t directed at Jaskier-- rather, at the world (and a little bit at his idiot bard, but in the fondest of ways)-- but he knew the bard would take it the wrong way. 

“Of course I don’t,” Jaskier blinked owlishly. “I do it because I want to.”

And that-- Geralt had no idea how to respond to that. He wasn’t stunned speechless, because witchers didn’t get stunned speechless by insouciant bards, but it was a near thing. He had no idea how he’d earned Jaskier’s loyalty. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he deserved it. 

“Put your shirt back on,” Geralt said gruffly, not voicing any of the thoughts swirling in his head. “And don’t mess with your bandages.”

Jaskier, true to form, immediately started messing with his bandages. “Toss it to me?” he asked, turning his pleading eyes on Geralt. “I’m injured; I shouldn’t be moving.”

“Brat,” muttered Geralt. He threw the shirt anyway. If it hit Jaskier in the face, well, that was his own business.

Jaskier frowned at the tatters in his hands. “Well, this is unsalvageable,” he declared. “I’m going to need to borrow one of your shirts.”

“Why?” Geralt asked. “You have seventeen other doublets.”

“And I can’t risk them getting bloodstained!” Jaskier protested, pointing to his bandages. “Your shirts are at least black, if not already covered in blood. Come on, please? You should be nice to me; I did just get stabbed.”

Geralt wasn’t even sure why he bothered protesting. They both knew that Jaskier was going to get what he wanted anyway, so resisting was futile. Still, he felt like he had to at least make the effort. He put on a fearsome glare and bared his teeth ever so slightly in his usual  _ don’t fuck with me  _ expression. Jaskier, of course, looked unamused and kept his hand out expectantly. 

“Damn you, bard,” Geralt cursed, digging in his pack for an extra shirt. 

Jaskier smiled smugly as he pulled it on. “Thank you kindly, Geralt,” he teased. This shirt fit him no better than the last one and Geralt had to turn away lest he do something he’d regret, like kiss the stupid, terrible, no good bard. Jaskier seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil, chattering on as if everything was normal.

It was going to be a long night, that was for sure.

\---

If Jaskier didn’t stop stealing his clothes, Geralt was going to have to do something dramatic. Like punch the bard in the mouth. With his mouth. Gently. 

Currently, Jaskier was wearing Geralt’s shirt as he performed for the tavern, the neck slipping off of his shoulder indecently. He danced around the tavern and strummed his lute with reckless abandon, cheeks red and smile wide. Every time he looped past Geralt’s table in the corner, Geralt could smell himself on the bard, mixing with Jaskier’s. Jaskier even had the audacity to  _ wink  _ at him. Asshole.

Geralt considered going upstairs to their room (one bed, to save coin), but he knew the second he left, Jaskier would find trouble. The bard had a gift for it, it seemed. Or, more aptly put, no self-preservation instincts and half a brain. 

With a sigh, he lifted his tankard of ale to his lips and took a long drink, knowing he’d need it before the night was out. Jaskier had that effect on him.

_ Speak of the devil and he appears, _ Geralt thought wryly as Jaskier slid into the seat across from him, flushed and grinning from the high of a performance. He snatched the ale from Geralt’s hand and drained half of it in one sip, turning the full force of his dazzling smile on him.

“How’d I do?” he asked earnestly, setting his lute down next to him.

“You haven’t started any fights, so I’d call it a successful night,” Geralt said dryly, taking his ale back. “Don’t touch my drink.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I meant my performance, you brute,” he said fondly. “Though I should’ve guessed that you’d have no appreciation for good music. A shame, really, seeing as you remain my muse and should maybe be a little more appreciative.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, doing his best not to look at his shirt on Jaskier’s lean frame, the thin fabric stuck to the bard’s skin with sweat. It shouldn’t have been attractive. The fit alone was comical. Geralt tried to focus on that. 

“Brute,” Jaskier repeated, shaking his head. “I’m going upstairs. Are you coming?”

Geralt finished off his ale and stood. “Fine,” he said, following Jaskier to the stairs and trying not to stare at the knobs of the bard’s spine visible above the loose neck of Geralt’s shirt. Jaskier chattered on inanely, but Geralt couldn’t follow it. The bard was really testing his willpower today.

Geralt had no idea why it was so hard. He’d seen Jaskier in his clothes before, and he’d seen Jaskier glowing off the high of a good performance. There was nothing new, except perhaps the combination of the two. 

Jaskier unlocked the door to their room with a triumphant noise and tossed his lute on the bed. Bending over closer to Geralt than was strictly necessary, he started digging in his bag for something or other. That damned shirt rucked up, exposing his stomach. Geralt almost missed the  _ look  _ Jaskier shot him, somewhere between seductive and appraising, because he was staring at the exposed skin.

Geralt wasn’t imagining it; Jaskier was clearly flirting with him. There was naked intent in his eyes as he pranced around the room, hands twisting in the hem of his shirt. He swayed his hips as he moved more than usual. On anyone else, the flirtations would’ve seemed heavy-handed, but Jaskier was managing to pull it off.

“You--  _ oh _ .” Geralt’s mouth slammed shut with an audible click as he finally connected that spark in Jaskier’s eyes with his actions. Jaskier had been riling him up this whole time on purpose. He’d known  _ exactly  _ what wearing Geralt’s clothes did to the Witcher, and he’d used it to play Geralt like a lute. What Geralt couldn’t quite puzzle out was  _ why _ .

He knew Jaskier was attracted to him. It was hard not to know, what with the way the bard smelled like arousal far too often around Geralt. But Geralt wasn’t willing to risk their friendship-- and yes, he could admit in the privacy of his own head that they were friends-- for one night. 

No matter how much he might have wanted it.

Geralt was a master of denial, and he’d denied his own attraction for Jaskier for a long time. He wasn’t even sure when it had started, but nowadays, looking at the bard and knowing that he’d never have him the way he wanted to. It was fine; he valued Jaskier’s friendship more than most everything. But greed hadn’t been burnt out of him by the Trials, and Geralt wanted  _ more _ . 

Jaskier didn’t. It was just the way it was. Geralt had made his peace with it. Besides, there was no room for love on the Path. 

Jaskier was watching him expectantly, but Geralt didn’t know what he was waiting for. “Well?” he prompted. “Care to share your big realization with the rest of the room?”

“Not particularly,” Geralt said gruffly, turning away. The sooner the conversation ended, the sooner he could go back to ignoring his feelings for Jaskier and hoping they went away.

Jaskier made an impatient noise. “Fine,” he huffed, and then his hand was on Geralt’s shoulder, spinning him around. Geralt followed the motion more out of shock than anything else. “I’ll tell you what you were  _ supposed  _ to realize, but I suppose I can cut you some slack on your obliviousness. Time to throw subtlety out the window. I want you, Geralt of Rivia, to take me to bed. There, I said it. No  _ possible  _ misinterpretation now.”

“I knew that already,” Geralt said blandly.

“You-- you  _ what _ ?” Jaskier’s hands and pitch shot up. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. “But-- what? How?  _ Why _ ? I can’t-- I don’t--  _ oh _ .” He paused for a long moment, then continued, softer. “You think I only want a quick tumble, don’t you? You think once I get a taste of you, I’ll fuck off and you’ll be alone again? Is that why you’ve been turning me away at every step?”

Geralt nodded mutely. In only a minute, Jaskier had cut to the heart of the issue with his razor-sharp words. Sometimes, Geralt wished the bard were stupider. It would make a lot of things a lot easier.

“You, my dear Witcher, are the dumbest man I’ve ever met, and I’m including Valdo Marx in this equation,” Jaskier said fiercely, stepping impossibly closer. Their noses were almost touching. Geralt hadn’t realized how blue Jaskier’s eyes were. “Would I spent my days traipsing around swamps and forests if all I wanted was sex? Sex, I can get anywhere. But companionship? Understanding? Acceptance?  _ Love _ ? Geralt, there’s a reason I’ve been following you around for years, and it has very little to do with your cock. I’m in love with you, Geralt, and I hope you feel the same, or this is about to get very awkward and--”

“You never said,” Geralt replied. “You’ve never hidden your love for anyone else, why start with me?”

“Because I love like a candle,” Jaskier whispered. “Lit one moment, gone in a breath. I always have. I’m…  _ flighty _ , to say the least. I fall in and out of love every week with someone new, and it’s never bothered me before. Until you. Because I fell in love with you, and I didn’t fall out of it after a day or a week or a month. It’s been  _ years _ . I don’t know if I know how to not love you anymore, honestly. You’ve set me on fire, Geralt, and I am happy to burn.”

“Why now?” asked Geralt, voice hoarse with emotions he couldn’t name.

Jaskier smiled softly, almost sadly. “Like you said, I’ve never hidden my love,” he said. “I don’t want to hide this one anymore. I love you, Geralt of Rivia, and--  _ oomph! _ ”

Geralt wasn’t good with words, he knew, but actions rarely failed him. He barely had to move to press their lips together, to drag Jaskier close until there was no space left between them. Jaskier’s hands wound almost automatically through his hair, dragging a groan out of Geralt. Returning the favor, he nipped sharply at Jaskier’s lower lip, reveling in the way it made the bard melt against him. 

Jaskier pulled away for air after a long moment, red-faced and panting, but grinning like the cat who got the canary. Suddenly, actions didn’t feel like enough, but Geralt still couldn’t find the words.

“Jas, I…” he trailed off. 

Jaskier cupped Geralt’s face with his hands. “I know, my dear,” he murmured, and then they were kissing again. 

This kiss was softer, almost chaste, and impossibly sweet. It was everything Geralt couldn’t find the words for, everything that Jaskier was still keeping close to his chest. It was just…  _ everything _ . It swept Geralt away like a tide, and he found he was happy to drown in Jaskier’s love.

The kiss deepened as Jaskier started moving them back towards the bed. It took a little undignified stumbling ( _ not  _ on Geralt’s part, though, he was as graceful as ever) to get there, but Jaskier’s breathless laugh when Geralt toppled him over was well worth it. 

“Stop wearing my clothes,” Geralt broke off the kiss to growl as he tugged at Jaskier’s ( _ his _ ) shirt, meaning it not at all.

“I make no promises, Witcher,” Jaskier said, giving Geralt a coy look. “Not if this is the punishment I get.”

(The next morning, Geralt wasn’t even a little bit surprised that Jaskier was wearing his shirt again. He found that he didn’t mind all that much, though, not if he got to take it off of Jaskier later.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make me smile :))


End file.
